Backtracker (33 page)

"
No no,
"
said Ernie.
"
They
'
re still going away.
"

"
When
'
re they leaving
?
"
wondered Billy.

"
Tomorrow evening.
"

"
Then what
'
s the problem
?
"
grinned Billy.
"
They leave and we show up with the beer.
"

"
The problem is, they
'
re not taking anyone with them, so I
'
m stuck watching my brother. Plus, my sister Amy wants to have her own party at the house tomorrow night, and I sort of agreed to go along with it.
"

"
Hey, no problem then
!
"
chirped Billy.
"
If there
'
s already a party, we
'
ll just make it a bigger one!
"

"
I don
'
t think so,
"
laughed Ernie.
"
You know how those high school parties are.
"

"
Sure I do,
"
piped Billy.
"
We used to have them all the time!
"

"
I
'
m sorry, but I
'
m just not going to invite you guys out tomorrow night. I promised Amy I
'
d keep Matt out of the way, and she could have the house to herself otherwise. Anyway, we
'
re already having our party for the weekend tonight.
"

"
So what
?
"
persisted Billy.
"
You can
never
have too many parties in one weekend!
"

"
Maybe I
'
ll have one two weekends from now,
"
offered Ernie.
"
My parents will be out of town again, so I
'
ll try to set everything up ahead of time.
"

"
Two weekends from now
?
"
protested Billy.
"
Are you
kidding
?
We
have
to have a party before then!
"

"
Well, don
'
t look at me,
"
shrugged Ernie, cool and unfazed.
"
If you want a party any earlier, someone else will have to throw it.
"

"
Gee, Billy,
"
smirked Jack Bunsen.
"
I guess it
'
s all up to you, then.
"

"
Yeah, I guess so,
"
sighed Billy, woefully wagging his head.
"
All because Ernie doesn
'
t want us hanging around his sister and her teenybopper friends.
"

"
I can
'
t say I blame him,
"
laughed Jack.

"
So, Ernie,
"
spoke up Larry then.
"
Why exactly are your folks going out of town for the weekend? Are they visiting relatives?
"

"
Not really,
"
said Ernie.
"
My dad
'
s one friend lives in Lancaster, and they drive out to see him quite often. It used to be more of a family thing, but now my parents usually go by themselves.
"

"
How long does it take to get from here to Lancaster
?
"
wondered Larry, reaching up to stroke his sandy goatee.

"
About three hours,
"
offered Jack.

"
More like two
!
"
blurted Billy.

"
Sure, if you drive like a maniac,
"
spun Becky D
'
Amoto.

"
Well, that
'
s how I drive
!
"
grinned Billy.

"
I guess the turnpike
'
s the quickest way to go, huh
?
"
asked Larry.

"
It is,
"
nodded Ernie.
"
You can either pick it up in Bedford or Somerset, but Somerset
'
s a little closer. That
'
s the way my parents always go, anyway. Route 219 to Somerset, and then take the turnpike from there.
"

"
It
'
s a half
-
hour to Somerset,
"
added Jack.
"
Turnpike
'
s an easy drive, though.
"

"
Well, that
'
s good,
"
said Larry, skimming a beefy hand up and over his
crew
-
cut
.
"
An easy drive
'
s good for this time of year, what with the weather and all that.
"

"
The weather can be pretty unpredictable, all right,
"
conceded Ernie.
"
Last year, we got snow in the middle of April. Spring doesn
'
t really set in until the middle or end of May.
"

"
Even then, it doesn
'
t amount to much,
"
lobbed Dave.
"
Every season
'
s pretty short around here except winter.
"

"
So,
"
Larry said casually.
"
Even though the weather
'
s unpredictable, I guess there aren
'
t many accidents on the turnpike this time of year?
"

"
Once in a while,
"
shrugged Ernie.
"
No more than you see on any other highway. Why do you ask? Are you planning on taking a trip?
"

"
Not now, no,
"
dismissed Larry.
"
I just like to know the best way to get places, in case I get the urge to pack up and go.
"

"
So where
'
s the next place you think you
'
ll go
?
"
asked Ernie.
"
Are you setting your sights on Lancaster maybe?
"

"
Who knows
?
"
chuckled Larry.
"
When I get the itch, I
'
ll probably just pick a direction and start walking.
"

"
Well, if you decide on Lancaster,
"
said Ernie,
"
I
'
m sure you can get a ride with my parents sometime.
"

"
Thanks,
"
smiled Larry.
"
Maybe I
'
ll take you up on that sometime. I
'
m not quite ready to go by...when did you say they were leaving?
"

"
About six o
'
clock,
"
supplied Ernie.
"
I
'
m not quite ready to leave town by six o
'
clock tomorrow evening,
"
laughed Larry.
"
I don
'
t think I
'
ll have the itch to leave by then. I
'
d still like to get to a few more of these parties before I hit the road.
"

"
You better
!
"
lunged Billy Bristol.
"
Attendance is mandatory, man!
"

"
Oh, brother,
"
Jane Niessner drawled sardonically.
"
Mandatory, shmandatory. What
'
re you gonna
'
do if we don
'
t show up?
"

"
I won
'
t have to do anything
!
"
crowed Billy.
"
You
'
ll all show up because you won
'
t want to miss all the fun!
"

"
There wouldn
'
t
be
any fun if we didn
'
t show up,
"
amended Becky D
'
Amoto.

"
Exactly
!
"
pounced Billy.
"
That
'
s why attendance is mandatory!
"

Dave laughed. The banter at the kitchen table rambled on, but he felt more and more removed from it, removed from everything but the gentle dissolution of his intoxication. Disconnected and blissfully vacant, he maintained little more than a physical presence in the room.

Glancing at Larry, he felt a faint tug in the back of his mind, the weakest tweak of his recent obsession...and then it was gone. Larry spoke, but the sound of his voice wafted past like unimportant background noise. Usually, Dave
'
s ears would whip like radar dishes to catch that voice, and his brain would rumble and whir to process every word and nuance; now, he let it all glide past without the slightest flicker of interest.

He began to feel groggy and drowsy, and his eyelids grew heavier. Soon, he would ask Darlene to drive him home, and then he would get some sleep.

Hangovers and Larry Smith
wouldn
'
t
concern him until morning.

*****

Chapter
17

They would come any minute now.

He imagined the looks on their faces. They would be just a little worried, a bit tense because the weather had gone bad; her frown might be a little deeper than his as she stared through the rain
-
streaked windshield, as she gazed at the gleaming pavement picked out by the headlights.
'
That shine,
'
she might think.
'
Is it ice, or just a film of rain?
'

He imagined what they would say. Perhaps she would turn to her husband and ask if he thought they should go home, postpone the trip until the weather was more favorable. Confidently, he would dismiss the notion, assuring her that the roads were fine, it
wasn
'
t
yet cold enough for them to freeze. He would tell her not to worry, and he would calmly guide the steering wheel, perhaps using only one hand to demonstrate his faith and competence...all the while secretly worrying himself, wondering if indeed they ought to head home.

The Miraclemaker
didn
'
t
believe that they would head home. He was convinced that they would come, that they would come to him.

He checked his watch once more, then looked around. All was ready, conditions were perfect; nodding, he thought again how fortunate he was, how easy the task would be.

The road was indeed slick, and a freezing rain continued to fall. The stolen pickup in which he waited was in excellent shape; earlier,
he'd
run it through its paces, and it had responded marvelously. The stretch of road at which he was posted was lined on both sides by dense walls of trees, and they flanked the pavement uninterrupted for at least two miles further. It was already quite dark, and traffic was practically nonexistent; in the last hour, only three vehicles had passed him, and they had done so at intervals of at least fifteen minutes.

Perfect. It was a shadowy, slick, deserted corridor, perfect for his purposes, perfect for the miracle. He waited in the cab of the pickup, parked in a nook between trees just off the road, and he was satisfied.

Everything would happen just as
he'd
known that it must.

The two would die. The other four in the family would be untouched, and it would all appear to be a terrible act of God.

It would be like an act of God.

Any minute now. They would come any minute now, and it would all be over in the wink of an eye. It would go so quickly, the victims would scarcely have time to realize what was happening.

The Miraclemaker would strike swiftly and savagely, enforce his will with the brutal suddenness of a man crushing an insect underfoot. He would have to do the job quickly, because after all, he would be working in an open and vulnerable place. Though traffic was negligible, there was always a chance that a car might pass at exactly the wrong moment, that a witness might unluckily appear. The road was underused, and ran through a thinly populated rural region, but it was still impossible to predict when an interfering vehicle might approach.

It would all be over quickly; he would make sure. It would all begin and end any minute now.

Any minute now. They would come any minute now.

Now.

They were coming now.

The brilliance of approaching headlights flared into the cab of the pickup. Whipping his head around, he caught the luminance full in his face, spotted the twin beams gliding rapidly toward him. It was impossible to tell what kind of vehicle projected those rays, and he squinted...and then the light surged upon him and dove away. Reflexively, he blinked at the spots in his eyes, then gaped after the target for a clear, identifying look.

His heart pounded, blood bore through him, and then he realized: yes, it was them, it was their car, it was time to move.

Turning the key, he started the pickup, let the engine roar and awaken. He jolted the gearshift and played the pedals and the dark chariot bolted from its niche, exploding onto the gleaming pavement like a pinball from its launcher. The backend of the pickup fishtailed, swung away on the icy road, then swept back and after the cab as the tire chains bit into the frozen layer.

The pickup cut forward, and he wondered if they
had
n
o
t
iced him yet. If the husband was alert, perhaps
he'd
already glimpsed the black shape in his rear
-
view mirror. Probably, he thought nothing of it; it was just another truck, and there were plenty of trucks on those rural byways, plenty of harmless pickups. If anything, perhaps he would sigh with annoyance because the vehicle
'
s headlights
weren
'
t
aglow; he might bristle at the careless lack of headlights in that darkness, the disregard which could lead to an accident.

Then again, he might not have even caught sight of the pickup, in which case he would soon be in for a violent surprise.

Iron eyes focused ahead, lips drawn in a tight, tense line, the Miraclemaker punched the pickup toward his prey, saw the red tail
-
lights press closer. Breathing fast, he nudged the clutch and wrenched the gearshift into another notch, urging the truck into second gear. There was a quick jolt at the shift and then he mashed the accelerator and the pickup leaped forward.

Like lightning, he thought; he was like a lance of lightning, a furious gash splitting the night. Birthed in seething darkness,
he'd
been unleashed, loosed from the sky to bring flame to the Earth. Like lightning, like the golden line, he was inhuman and unstoppable, an irresistible weapon beyond mortal ken.

For a split
-
second, he closed his eyes and conjured a vision of the holy line; divine and solid and severe, it lingered and inspired, pointed the way dead ahead. When his eyes switched open once more, he felt transfigured and empowered, strengthened and emboldened beyond all limits of strength and boldness.

A great thing was about to happen.

Carving the gearshift into another notch, he pushed the pickup into third. The tail
-
light bull
'
s
-
eyes boiled toward him and his heart quickened.

Surely, the driver now saw him,
couldn
'
t
possibly miss the behemoth looming from behind. What did he think of it? Did he recognize the figure of his death, the sleek and unexpected face? Was he sweating, clutching the wheel, whispering to his wife that their time had come?

No...no, of course not. For now, his only reaction was probably irritation at the lightless vehicle rushing his bumper.
'
Another tailgater,
'
he might have been thinking crossly.
'
What a pain in the ass. Maybe I
'
ll just pull over and let him past.
'

Whatever the man
'
s thoughts, they most certainly
weren
'
t
of death. Unlike his
pursuer
, he
wasn
'
t
a prophet or agent of fate, and so was blind.

The pickup sailed to within a few feet of its quarry. Steeling himself for the work, the Miraclemaker checked the rear
-
view mirror, saw that the road was clear behind him; no untimely headlights winked back there, and none came toward him, so he was free to act.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, gloved hands clamping clawlike, arms bent but stiff as struts. Head bowed, he stamped the accelerator.

The pickup pulsed forward, then bucked to the left, swerving abruptly into the other lane. Charging alongside the car as if he meant to pass it, the Miraclemaker slung the truck ahead until it matched the other
'
s speed, until the noses of the two vehicles were aligned.

Allowing the synchronous pairing to continue for an instant, the Miraclemaker swung his face to the right and tried to peer down into the car. He wanted a last glimpse, a meeting of eyes, a parting exchange...but it was no good. The cab of the pickup was too high; all that he could see through the passenger
-
side window was the silver roof of the car, the blank lid sealed over his captives. Craning his neck, he strained to see more, but had no luck and had to return his eyes to the road.

Hunching over the wheel, he braced himself. A turn of that wheel was all that would be needed; a simple turn would be the trigger. With a turn of the wheel, another step would be taken; the plan would ply onward, vaulting him still closer to his grand dream.

Just a turn. Just a turn of the wheel, and two more would die.

He turned the wheel.

The nose of the pickup lashed to the right. A jolt ran through the truck at the impact, and then he swept the wheel back to the left. Through the side window, he glimpsed the car falling away, off the road, toward the trees.

Teeth clenched, senses heightened, he saw the silver compact veer tree
-
ward, and then he lost sight of it. Gorged with momentum, the pickup continued to hurtle forward, robbing him of the view.

As he pumped the clutch and chucked the gearshift, threw the truck into first, he heard it, though...he heard the crash. Even far ahead of the site, with the cab
'
s windows shut tightly, he heard the sweet blast of the impact, the clash of projectile and barrier. Loud and sharp and sudden, the burst of sound cooked through him, shot its fine fortissimo chord around and into the pickup. It would resonate, he knew, would climb and spread across the distance; the song of destruction would broadcast through the land, announcing and sanctifying the miracle.

The angelic transmission would also raise the alarm, so he would have to work fast. There was a final task to perform, and
he had
to disappear before the oglers and rescuers could assemble. They would come, of course, swarming quickly even there, filling the secluded lane like ants pouring surprisingly from the quiet earth...not knowing that all their rush and fever would be for nothing.

Plunging the brake to the floor, he spun the wheel; the pickup whipped around, sliding in a circle over the icy pavement, and then he pasted the accelerator. For an instant, the tires whirred on the ice and the pickup kept slipping around...and then the chains caught purchase and the front end sprinted forward. Tail swaying on the slickness, the black vehicle shot toward the wreck.

In seconds, the pickup retraced its path, and the Miraclemaker could see the car. Without reservation, he was pleased, for all had gone exactly as
he'd
intended. Batted aside by the truck, the silver two
-
door had swung from the road and rammed into a tree, a thick and unyielding column. If the driver had tried to work the brakes, it had done no good on the frozen road, and the car had dashed headlong against the waiting trunk. Like cardboard, like flimsy tin, the silver missile had crumpled against the solid wood; the nose of the car was mauled and folded around the bark, compressed to a third of its original length. Strikingly, the rear
-
end of the car looked undamaged, whole and unscarred from the rear window to the fender; it sat cockeyed on the rippled ground, but was otherwise misleadingly correct, right down to the still
-
glowing red eyes of the tail
-
lights.

Drawing alongside the wreckage, the Miraclemaker slowed the pickup, parked it on the berm. Quickly and calmly, he heaved open the door and hopped out on the gravel. As soon as his feet left the truck, he started toward the crushed car, glancing furtively to the right and left to make sure that the road was still clear. For the moment, no headlights shone from either direction, but he knew that the solitude was temporary.

The pressure of dwindling time dominated his mind, forcing him forward at a jog. Crucial seconds sloughed away, but he still had to be careful; the ground was hard, so it was unlikely that his boots would leave prints, but
he had
to watch his step, avoid breaking up the brush in a perceptible path. He wished to leave no hint that
he'd
been there, that anyone had visited the site immediately following the carnage. No room could be left for anyone to suggest that this had been anything but an accident.

Skirting the twisted shell of the car, he hurried to the passenger side. Leaning at the window, he finally got a look at the occupants, the dark
-
haired husband and wife whom
he'd
secretly watched in their own home several nights before. Both were still and silent, their bodies pitched in unnatural poses about the darkened compartment.

Neither had been wearing a seatbelt; the impact had launched them both forward with considerable force. The woman had been shot from her seat and into the windshield, her skull smashing the glass like a cannonball. Even now, her head was lodged in the shattered pane; a burst of blood covered the fissured glass around her face. From that gruesome connection, her body hung limply, draped over the dash, suspended above her bucket seat.